


Hard on the Knees

by jacksqueen16



Series: Destiel Smut Brigade Valentine's Day Fic Dump [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Dean, Candles, Cas uses his angle mojo, Destiel Smut Brigade, Doggy Style, Enochian, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hotel Room Sex, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot, Porn Without Plot, Rose Petals, Sam Ships It, Sex with Clothes On, Smut, Top Cas, Valentine's Day, boxer kink, cliches up the wazoo, red satin boxers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-12 22:21:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3357392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacksqueen16/pseuds/jacksqueen16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Various sources indicate that this is how things are done on Valentine’s Day. Although I must concede that I do not understand the hype. I doubt that this is how Saint Valentinus wanted to be remembered. The shape of the bed, in particular, confounds me. Is it supposed to be sexy?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hard on the Knees

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine.

_“Cause falling in love is so hard on the knees.” —Aerosmith_

* * *

 

Castiel stands back to survey his handiwork. It took a while for him to get the hotel room the way it's supposed to look, and a very human satisfaction flows through him. He doesn't find the heart-shaped bed particularly appealing, but it is Valentine's Day after all, and apparently, this is what people do.

He has replaced the somewhat tacky bedspread and sheets with new ones (high thread count “Egyptian cotton”) that Charlie helped him pick out that morning at the mall. (Apparently washerwomen can not always be trusted.) Red and pink rosepetals are artfully strewn across the duvet and pillows, and he's laid a path of them from the door to the bed. Candles are perched on the headboard, providing “ambiance.” Castiel doesn’t think that they need “ambiance.” They certainly never have before, but his newly acquired knowledge of popular culture ensures him that this is expected.

A knock on the door startles him, and he quickly checks his reflection in the large gilded mirror. He is not used to feeling nervous, especially when it comes to his relationship with Dean Winchester, but there is something about this human holiday that has him on the brink.

"Yo, Cas. You in there?" Dean asks through the door.

Castiel clears his throat before turning the doorknob. Dean smiles at him before glancing curiously over his shoulder into the hotel room. "What's this?" the Winchester asks, a bemused look on his face.

Castiel swallows, his throat feeling thick and uncomfortable. “Come in.” He stands aside to let his partner through.

“Sam said to meet you here, but I thought I was in the wrong place,” Dean admits, letting his hand brush against Castiel’s as he enters. “What’s—”

Dean’s voice catches as he stares at the uninhibited view of the room. The heart shaped bed, petals upon petals, flickering candlelight, and the tray of recently delivered chocolates and chilled champagne. “Uh, Cas?”

 _This is what people do_ , Castiel reminds himself. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Dean.”

“Oh, uh...yeah. Happy Valentine’s Day,” Dean mumbles in his _I’m a little uncomfortable_ voice.

Something twists in Castiel’s stomach as he watches Dean’s stoic face. “Do you...not like it?”

“No, no, it’s…” Dean turns to look at Castiel. “It’s not that.” His tone softens. “I just, um….not to sound like a dick or anything, but where did you get this idea?”

Castiel shifts his weight awkwardly. “Various sources indicate that this is how things are done on Valentine’s Day. Although I must concede that I do not understand the hype. I doubt that this is how Saint Valentinus wanted to be remembered. The shape of the bed, in particular, confounds me. Is it supposed to be sexy?”

“Woah, who the hell is Valentinus?”

“An early Christian saint. He is remembered for his martyrdom—”

“Okay, okay…” Dean laughs, shrugging off his jacket. Castiel’s hands itch to help him. “I don’t really want to know the grisly background of this Hallmark holiday.”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel says. “I thought you would appreciate the traditional aspects of today. Is it not customary to have these...things?” He gestures at the various accoutrements.

Dean picks up the bottle of champagne. “In corny movies, sure.” He pours two glasses.

“By corny, you mean to say trite and predictable?” Castiel accepts the champagne. Alcohol is one of humanity’s decadences that he has come to appreciate. He takes a sip, eyes on Dean.

“Yeah, basically. Most people don’t actually do this stuff. At least, I don’t think they do.” Dean takes a sip of his own. “I mean, Valentine’s Day was never something I really celebrated with anyone. It was more of a day to…”

“Pick up lonely women.”

The man has the decency to blush. “That’s behind me now, you know.”

“I know.” Castiel takes another sip. “So, was this a mistake? Getting the hotel room, buying these things? I just wanted to—”

Dean comes closer, pressing into Castiel’s space, and the words die on his lips. The angel inhales as the Winchester leans down to press a kiss to his neck. “It’s pretty cheesy, I’m not gonna lie. But no one’s done this for me before.” Dean licks the spot he just kissed. “It’s kind of...hot, actually. In a weird 80s teen movie kind of way.”

Castiel struggles to keep a hold on his champagne flute. “Another first for us both.”

“Everything with you is a first,” Dean murmurs.

Castiel manages to set his drink back down on the table without dropping it. Hands free, he cradles Dean’s face. The candlelight flickers, reflecting in those endless green orbs, and the nerves in his chest blossom into a familiar heat. A fervency he had never imagined until the moment he pulled the Righteous Man from the depths of Hell, unintentionally marking him, claiming him as his own. An intensity he doesn’t want to exist without.

“Dean Winchester,” he says, brushing their lips together, vaguely registering Dean’s increasingly rapid heartbeat under his fingertips. “Will you be my valentine?”

Dean laughs, small puffs of air against Castiel’s mouth. “You’re an idiot,” he mutters. Castiel knows he means “I love you.”

Castiel crushes their mouths together. Tongues meet in a battle for dominance, stroking and swirling and Castiel thinks that he should have kissed Dean the moment he opened the door.

A muffled crash sounds from far away. The angel feels wetness against his pant leg, and realizes that Dean has dropped his champagne. The thought of making Dean come undone stokes the fire in Castiel’s ribcage, spreading warmth to his stomach and heart and fingertips. Dean isn’t close enough, will never be close enough. “Baby,” Dean whispers when they part for air. “Take me to bed.”

“Now who’s being corny?” Castiel teases as he backs Dean toward the garish bed, clothes falling to the ground in their wake. Before the man can answer, Castiel has his shoes, pants, and underwear off, and is kneeling before him on the hard floor. He nuzzles against Dean’s already hard cock. Dean groans when he realizes Castiel’s intent, ripping his own shirt off and throwing it in the general direction of the rest of his clothing. Trapped against the edge of the bed, he waits for Castiel to make his move.

Despite wanting nothing more than to bury himself in Dean until he can’t tell where one ends and the other begins, Castiel makes himself start off slowly. He places light kisses against Dean’s hipbones, along the crease of his thigh, licking the skin over the inguinal ligament. When Dean is literally shivering with anticipation beneath his lips, Castiel swallows him down in one smooth motion, ignoring the pain in his knees.

“Jesus, fuck,” Dean cries out, burying his hands in Castiel’s hair. “Oh my god, Cas.”

Castiel thinks that Dean will never learn not to take the Lord’s name in vain.

He moves his mouth swiftly over Dean’s leaking cock, just how Dean likes it: quick and dirty and just a little too intense. After a moment he slows down to give his jaw a break, flicking his tongue against the glans. Dean quivers, grips Castiel’s hair tighter. The angel grips what isn’t covered by his mouth and strokes, aided by his own spit and Dean’s precum. “Oh please, please,” Dean croaks, obviously trying not to thrust into Castiel’s face.

Castiel almost gasps at the thought of Dean fucking his face, and files that away for later. He reaches down to palm his own cock through his trousers as he pulls off of Dean. “Bed, now,” he commands.

Dean flops down, a smirk etched across his lips. “Naked, now,” he replies.

Castiel makes quick work of his clothes. As he pulls his pants down, he hears a gasp from Dean, and remembers what he’s wearing underneath. He grins.

“Uh, Cas? Are those my boxers?”

Castiel toes his socks and shoes off, finally straightening up to let Dean see what he’d stolen from the dresser that morning. Dean’s red satin boxers.

“Goddamn,” Dean breathes, propping himself up on one elbow to get a better look in the undulating light. “Cas, that’s just...wow.”

“You were right,” Castiel smiles smugly as he crawls over Dean’s prostrate form. “Satin _is_ comfortable.”

Dean lets Castiel push him back down into the mattress, crushing the rose petals beneath their combined weight. “You look so fucking sexy in that color,” Dean whispers as his hands roam frantically over Castiel’s back before settling on his ass. Their hips grind against each other, Dean’s cock leaving a trail of precum against the satin. “Will you fuck me?” he asks against Castiel’s neck, biting lightly.

“That was the plan,” Castiel says. “The nightstand.”

As Dean pulls away to reach for the tube of lubricant, Castiel makes to remove the borrowed boxers. But before his thumbs are even hooked into the waistband, Dean’s hands are back on his. “Wait. Can you...leave them on?” Dean sounds almost uncertain, his eyes wide with an element of vulnerability, pupils blown dark with lust.

“Yes,” Castiel replies immediately. “Anything you want.”

Dean unscrews the cap on the tube and begins to prepare himself without waiting for Castiel. The angel moans at the sight of Dean’s legs spread wide, fingers slick with lubricant and probing into his asshole. He pulls his cock through the slit in the boxers and spits on his palm before stroking himself. He’s so hard it hurts, but he doesn’t want to pull himself off too much before getting the chance to share it with Dean. One more thrust into his fist, then he makes himself let go, and latches his lips onto the tip of Dean’s glans. Dean shudders, pushing his index and ring fingers further into himself as Castiel suckles lightly. “Shit, shit…” Dean grunts, pulling his fingers out. “You, in me. Now.”

Castiel slicks himself up as quickly as he can. “Turn over,” he says in the voice of the soldier that Dean likes so much. Dean complies immediately, thrusting his ass up into the air. A laugh spills out when Castiel sees the rose petals stuck to Dean’s pale skin. He plucks a few of them away from Dean’s sweaty buttocks, chuckling when his partner wiggles against him impatiently.

Finally aligning himself with Dean’s stretched hole, Castiel pushes in as slowly as he can bear. It’s not unlike coming home, being enveloped by heat so luscious that Castiel could surrender to it for days on end. He curses softly in Enochian, gripping Dean’s hips as tightly as he dares, knowing there will be bruises the shape of fingerprints there the next day.

“Please move,” Dean begs, his head leaning against his arms. Castiel can see Dean’s fingers gripping the shiny fabric of the bedspread, and he gives into the urge to thrust, thrust, thrust. The sound of skin slapping against satin echoes through the room, punctuated by their grunts. Sweat gathers at Castiel’s hairline, and where the boxers touch his skin. The slit is damp with sweat and lube and he can’t stop staring at where the crimson fabric meets, then separates from, the smooth curve of Dean’s ass, over and over. Dean thrusts back against him, giving as good as he gets, making sure that Castiel hits his prostate.

As their movements gather speed, Castiel is suddenly aware of the light shuddering around them. The candles on the headboard wobble precariously, one poised to fall. With a wave of his hand, they float up into the air, twinkling pinpricks in the darkness. If Dean notices, he doesn’t say anything except moan all the louder.

“Dean, I—”

Castiel tries to warn him that he won’t last much longer, but then Dean’s muscles are clenching around him deliciously, and the angel can’t make a sound. He is levitating, on the edge of silent ecstasy as he pours his seed into Dean.

They collapse onto the duvet together, a tangle of limbs and sweat and sticky rose petals.

“Best Valentine’s Day ever,” Dean mutters into the crook of his lover’s neck. “But next time, you’re getting your own pair of satin boxers.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day, y'all! Long live #ProfoundLove.


End file.
